Raven's Feather
by JediTimelady
Summary: There are murders, then there are the things Raven Holmes investigates. With a seriously messed-up history and a missing family, she heads to London to try and solve a killing that managed to capture her attention- which seems to be its sole intent. And that's before Raven discovers her actual siblings.
1. Raven's Feather

_"You really, really do not want to play this game with me."_

Raven Nyx Holmes. Named after an omen of death, she quite possibly the furthest person away from ordinary one could find; she should know, as she has tried to find someone else. This doesn't detract from her skill, intelligence, and eerie ability to read someone like an open book. Prized among law enforcement (she blames it on her genetics, while her coworkers blame it on her fascination with death and inherent ability to tell when someone is lying), she has a steady job and life in America. Not only that, but in the FBI, where she has definitely moved on from her former life. Definitely. That is all about to change, and not necessarily for the better.

It starts when her companion Demetria's friend and colleague is landed a spot in the morgue, with Raven set on the case and determined to solve this strange murder. Unfortunately, the trail she finds leads right back to the city she was born in; the city that, at the age of sixteen, she wiped from her memory. London was not the only missing piece in the fractured mind of the onyx-haired genius, and there is someone who knows exactly what memories they are forcing to the surface, and exactly which people to target to get Raven Holmes to play the game and play it well.

So she goes to London. She plays the game. And she isn't sure why she is surprised to discover who her family is. But there is someone after her and everything she loves, and her only friend might wind up dead or worse if Raven cannot stop the mastermind behind the bizarre murders. But it all might prove too much for the youngest of three siblings, and there is no telling what would happen if she were finally to break.


	2. Chapter One

_Chapter One: The First Murder_

I sifted through the new files on my desk, checking for the most interesting ones. After two hours of being in my office, there was nothing good. However, I had hope. It was early yet, and it had been a boring week at the Bureau. Those streaks never lasted, and I had a feeling today was when it was going to end.

Indeed, it seemed that it had. A young man, one of the new agents out of Quantico, cautiously entered my office holding a sheaf of papers. I raised my eyebrows.

"Yes?" I questioned him. He coughed.

"There's been a murder, and apparently it's something you would want. I, uh, got sent to give the details to you," he said quickly, setting the stack on my desk and backing out. He was gone in a few seconds. I shut the door behind him and picked up the papers. It was, indeed, a murder.

The victim was Tessa Lee. She was twenty-seven, and I knew her rather well. She was one of the closest friends that Demetria had, and now she was in the morgue with a gunshot wound to the chest, just beneath the shoulder and just above the heart and left lung. It would have taken a few minutes to kill her.

It was a very unusual way of shooting someone, and one that I had not encountered before. Distinctive, and I had a feeling that the shooting was not a one-time occurrence.

I set down the papers in a tidy stack and grabbed my keys from the desk's surface, locking my office's door behind me. Outside, I paused just as my hand stilled on the door handle. There was someone watching me: a man standing across the street with a wry smile on his lips. Short blonde hair, a scar across one cheek. Tall, lean and well-muscled.

A bus blocked my view from him and when it had passed, he had vanished. I frowned and drove off in the direction of the mortuary, lost in thought. For some reason, the sight of the man deeply unsettled me.

The morgue was, as usual, a bit chilly. People passed me silently in the halls. They were the living among the dead, and they knew that they were unwelcome. The atmosphere was the same when, a few minutes later, I brushed through the doors of the room holding Tessa Lee, the murdered girl.

As I put on gloves and a white lab coat, I padded over to the body. It had already been pulled from its storage unit, but it was still zipped up. I flexed my fingers, gripped the freezing zipper, and pulled it open to reveal the dead girl I had once known.

She had been, I supposed, a rather pleasant person in life. None of this showed in death; her pretty features were twisted in agony, and there was dried blood at the corner of her mouth and leaking from her nose. Her light skin was pale and her dirty blonde hair was tangled, the ends tinged with blood.

I unzipped the bag further to allow access to the bullet's entry wound. It had hit the top of her lung, ensuring death. The papers had stated that she had been alone heading home from the grocery store when she had been shot from the top of a nearby building. There was no sign of the shooter, and no evidence had been recovered. Whoever the killer was, he or she was well-trained and intelligent.

There had not been a struggle or an attempt to run, indicating that Tessa had not seen her shooter. The only wounds were the one from the bullet and a few scrapes from where she fell against the rough concrete sidewalk. What I was observing was consistent with what I had read in the files given to me. After she was shot, she fell, turned, and lay face up and unable to move. She was found when still alive, so only a few minutes after the shooting. She had died en route to the hospital.

The rest of her body revealed no other unknown facts, and what I gleaned from it any friend of hers could have told police or FBI agents. What I needed now to find was a motive. I pondered this interesting puzzle on my short drive back to FBI headquarters. So far, none had presented themselves, but I knew that interviews with Tessa's friends would take place the next day or shortly after.

As I was packing up, the Assistant Director rang me. I slowly answered the phone, puzzled. "Agent Raven Holmes," I spoke.

"Listen, Raven. I know you got assigned that shooting this morning, but I'm thinking about handing it to the local PD. It's not that strange, and we are way too busy to take run-of-the-mill killings right now," he announced.

"Sir, if you trust my opinion, let me have this one case. There's something about it that is not right at all, and I actually knew the victim. You know that I could solve all these cases on my desk really soon, but this one is different. Please, sir. It's important to me," I vocalized.

There was a sigh on the other end. "Fine. I will transfer some of your other cases to different agents, but you're going to need to work hard on this one. And try to solve this one quickly," he replied. I grinned.

"Thank you, sir." He hung up.

I grabbed the rest of my things and headed out of the building, calling Demetria on the way. I informed her of Tessa's murder and told her I was on the case, assuring her that the killing would be solved soon. I had no idea exactly how long it truly would be until her Tessa Lee's murderer would be avenged.

When I entered the darkened house I shared with my redheaded friend, I tossed my bag onto the hall table, shed my jacket, and jogged upstairs. It was only a few minutes before I was lying in bed thinking over the day. The most striking thing about my truly strange day was the location of the shot, and how utterly mysterious this new case was.


	3. Chapter Two

_Chapter Two: Ground Zero_

Mercifully, I got into the office early enough to avoid most people. My case file was where I had left it the night before, and when I opened up my computer the information I had requested had been emailed to me. It was the exact location of the shooting, along with a few speculations about the exact location of the shooter. What struck me as unusual was that there were no witnesses at all, despite the fact that it had only been eleven at night and it was in Washington, D.C.

My questions were answered when I viewed a report about a scuffle that had occurred a street over, leaving the already relatively secluded are around Tessa's location to become empty. It was then that she had been shot.

I learned that the interviews were scheduled for the next day, so I drove to the crime scene to examine it. Being two blocks from the nearest Metro stop, the sniper would have had only a short window in which his target would have been available, owing to the fact that her house was not quite four blocks from where she had been killed. He would have had to be fast.

It was the space between two buildings on a fairly quiet street. Blood had dried in a pool on the sidewalk, and there was blood splatter on the edge of one of the buildings. I flashed my badge at the officers guarding the site and stepped under the ribbon of yellow tape around the small area. I crouched along the edge of the largest space of blood, trying to visualize where the body had been.

It was easy to spot. Spreading out from beneath where the shoulder wound had been was a large blood stain consistent with what I had observed. The blood splatter on the building wall was consistent with the height of Tessa's shoulder, a few inches below my own. I calculated a few things, then glanced at the roof of the building the sniper had been on. It was six stories up with a very narrow window to shoot; I suspected that the sniper had extensive training and experience.

My phone buzzed and I checked the screen, seeing that it was the Assistant Director with the forensic reports for the bullet found. I typed a response and opened the file to examine the reports. The bullet was unusual, and one I had not seen before in person. It was made and sold very exclusively in the UK, mostly England. It was also hard to trace, because a large amount of this ammunition was sold to criminals and without sales records.

This was turning more and more interesting by the minute. Untraceable ammunition, no murder weapon, no evidence, and no suspects. A challenge, which I had not received for ages. Finally, something worth my time. But first, I had to find the murder weapon. It would give a huge insight into the shooter, whom I already knew was employed my someone who was British or was British himself. That narrowed the window down a lot, but it was motive that I needed.

I snapped a few pictures of the crime scene and returned to my office to analyze what I had found. There was not much, but it was a start. It was motive that I needed the most, and that was what I did not have.

It was what the friends said now that mattered the most, and, when I walked into the interview office the next day, I knew that what I found would be meager.

The small group of friends and family all but filled the tiny room. There were the friends I knew would be there, Demetria's inner circle, and there were people I assumed to be family waiting near the door. A grim-looking man whom I recognized as Cane Evans, one of Demetria's friends, walked out the door. His sister, Kate, took his place in the room. I watched as the door swung shut with ominous finality. There were no leads, and the room was only filled because protocol demanded these interviews.

Just as Kate Evans' interview was finishing, I pulled open the door and stepped inside, taking my usual place at the table. I nodded for them to carry on and listened while observing. Boring, boring, boring, and even more boring. There was nothing here; four interviews later, I learned that this applied to everyone.

By the time we concluded interviews for the day, absolutely nothing had been gained except the fact that everyone seemed to agree that Tessa Lee had no enemies, she owed nothing to anyone, and she was altogether a wonderful person. If this continued, the Bureau would dump this case.

I arrived home too late to do anything but go to sleep and hope that the interviews tomorrow, of which Demetria was one, would go a bit better. My hopes were obviously misplaced; when I arrived after lunch, as I usually did for this sort of thing, the officers' and agents' faces were grimmer than the day before. I once again took my seat just as Demetria cautiously stepped through the door and sat in the opposing chair.

Routine questions were asked and we received the same answer as the day before. I read her and she, like everyone else, was not hiding anything. This was quickly turning boring, until Demetria sat up straight and began to speak.

"Wait, there was something strange. Two days before she was killed, someone left a note on Tessa's counter. All the doors were locked, nothing had been disturbed, and she assumed it was one of her friends pranking her. It just said, 'You are a message to her.'"

"A message? To whom? Why would that be a message?" I questioned. She gave me a look.

"I don't know, Raven. Honestly, that is all I have. That's all she said," Demetria replied. I sighed in disappointment. If I could figure out who "her" was, I might have a lead. As it was, the note was all we had to go on, and it had been thrown away.

The trail was still turning cold, though. I had a lot of work to do if I wanted to keep the case or to solve it, and I had a feeling that my superiors would have something to say about this one.


	4. Chapter Three

_Chapter Three: Case Unsolved_

 _Boring. So very boring,_ I thought, looking over what had been tossed on my desk that morning. More cases; including a robbery and a break-in. I did not have the time for this, and new information on Tessa's murder was waning along with my superiors' interest. Without that note, which was lost to us, we had absolutely nothing. It was just out of reach; yet we tried to grab at it like Tantalus in the underworld.

Nothing was there. It was infuriating that I, one of the best agents at the FBI, could not solve what looked like a simple shooting at first. I knew that it was an obvious network, but why would a criminal network want someone like Tessa dead? Nothing in this made sense at all.

My phone rang, showing the number of one of the higher-ups in my building. I slid my finger across the screen and lifted it to my ear, dreading what was to come. It was exactly what I had suspected.

"The Tessa Lee case is being put on hold for now. Lack of evidence, lack of witnesses, no motive; it's a waste of time. Our best agents, including you, are working on it and we need you working on other things," the man said.

"Sir, I need to solve this case!" I protested, despite being a little bit relieved.

"I'm sorry, agent. We just cannot waste any more time or money on this case. I know you knew the victim, but there is nothing we can do now," he replied.

I growled. "Fine. I'll turn in the papers tomorrow; just let me clear up everything," I responded. The man thanked me and hung up. I hissed, more in frustration than annoyance, and tossed the phone onto my desk.

I didn't have a case, there was a British sniper running around the capital, and I was in the wrong country for this. Everything I needed to solve it would be practically at my fingers in England. I had to go; it was eating at me slowly.

That isn't why you want to go, whispered a small voice in the back of my mind. I ignored it. There was no use thinking about them when I had a murder to solve and a trip to arrange. I was sorting theories about the motive in my mind palace when my phone rang.

"You're on the right trail, Raven Queen," a male voice on the other end said silkily.

"Who is this?" I demanded, curious and a bit worried about who this man was and how he knew my name.

"I'd give it, oh, a month. Then you'll know exactly what it is that I am." There was a faint click and the line went dead.

I dropped the phone onto the surface of the desk and heavily sat back into my chair. That voice was unmistakable; I just had never heard it before. With an odd, lilting way of speaking and accents on certain syllables, it was so unusual that I knew if I ever heard it again I would recognize it. There was arrogance in that voice, and pride. And insanity. I had heard enough psychopaths to know what they sounded like.

Whoever he was, he knew about Tessa Lee's murder and all the details, along with my own private investigation. No one - no one- could get past the security that the FBI had; no one should have known about that case. I had heard a rumor that the higher-ups in my department were keeping it a secret, too, and if they wanted no one to know, no one would know. Even the police were kept in the dark about this one. Ironic, considering I had almost been forced to hand it to them on a silver platter.

What the man had said filtered back to me. Not who he was, but what. A person who had been able to infiltrate the top security in the FBI in a matter of days, and who had known my plans. Unbidden, a memory came back of a crime spree a few years ago, when I had just gotten out of Quantico and was still shifting departments. The only thing they had found was a note written in blood on the wall of the last killing and signed with the initials JM.

They had never found the perpetrator.

I had never gotten to work on a really big case like that, but this one was growing fast and far beyond my power. That voice lurking in the shadows of my brain screamed that something more was wrong, that there was something I was missing. Something vital. With a frustrated groan, I picked up a bullet sitting on my desk and threw it as hard as I could into the wall opposite. It hit and thudded off with a pathetically disappointing thump. I glared and leaned back in my chair.

My mind was a mess. I had no idea what would happen if I went to England, what I would find. Who I would have to face, what I would have to defeat within myself. I already knew my own capacity for evil, but the thought of fighting my own mind scared me.

There was a message on my phone when I checked it again, just before stepping into my car. It read COME AND GET ME. Nothing else. I knew who it was from, and I knew that this person was; a worthy adversary, a mirror of what I could have become if I had made a different choice. Someone so evil that children were told stories of him to get them to behave.

It was up to me to find that man and bring him to justice, or Tessa Lee and an untold number of others would never have closure. My only problem was how I was going to do it, and it started in a city that I had longed to wipe from my memory.


	5. Chapter Four

_Chapter Four: Call and Summon_ s

I rubbed my forehead, trying to make sense of the words swimming before my eyes. It was an easy enough case, the robbery of a small house on the outskirts of the city, but I found it annoyingly hard to focus. Memories were coming back to me unbidden, summoned by the connection of this case to my past. A past I had left behind fifteen years ago, along with a family I had wanted to forget.

I was once again attempting to make heads or tails of the case when my phone rang, showing a restricted number as the caller. I answered.

"Raven Holmes," I said tersely. There was a pause.

"Miss Holmes. I have heard a lot about you," came the voice from the other end. It was male, but not the one I had heard earlier. It was obviously British and very articulate in a manner that made it seem as if it wasn't practiced.

"Who is this?" I questioned, intrigued.

"That I cannot say. What I can tell you is that it is a matter of national security, and we need your help."

"Whose national security?" I replied.

"Who do you think? I know a lot about you, miss Holmes, and I know that it is your help we need. I can verify I am who I say I am, but it requires some effort on your part; you need to come to London. I apologize for the suspicion and inconvenience, but it will be well worth your time," the man told me. He was intelligent, that much was clear. Intelligent and possessing a motive to get me to come to London. Neither boded well for the remainder of my sanity, but facing strange situations was what I did for a living. This one just happened to be stranger than most.

"How soon do you need me there?" I asked after a pause.

"Two days. I will meet you soon after."

"You know the extent of my knowledge; if any of this becomes suspicious, I will leave. Understand that I am smarter than I am given credit for," I told the man, who chuckled.

"Believe me, I know, Raven Holmes." He hung up and I was left staring at a blinking screen with an uncharacteristically confused expression on my face. That had, in a long career of odd, been very odd indeed. I huffed and turned back to my notes on the robbery, stapled to a few photos. It was easy; too easy, in my experience. The man had disabled the alarms but not the security cameras and stolen one small but valuable necklace, leaving his fingerprints and DNA behind.

I scribbled a few notes on the margins before starting my official report. I would probably finish it later that night, but it was too boring to waste my time on when my shift ended in half an hour.

It was a tedious half hour; I spent most of it jotting down notes on scrap paper and adding them to my mind palace. I drifted when that was done, letting myself wander long-forgotten, dusty halls of a castle inside my skull.

 _It was the middle of a city, at night. Cold and wet, especially for the well-dressed teenage girl who ran along the streets._

I jolted fully awake. That was not supposed to happen. I was not supposed to remember; I had erased-

 _Onyx hair, curly and short, fell around a face marred with scratches, the kind from clawing branches of trees and thorns on bushes. Still she ran. There was a bag slung over her shoulder, heavy and stuffed full. Underneath the girl's coat, she clutched a knife. It was her only protection, now that she was alone._

No, no, no, no. This was gone. I forgot this. I locked it away. Yet still the memory flooded my mind, set free by the case and its connections to my past.

 _She slammed a motel room door shut, panting hard. The room was neat, the only evidence of occupation being a suitcase on a rack and a jacket neatly folded on top of it. The girl, about sixteen, collapsed on one of the beds. Alone. She was alone and free, and she had finally run._

With a hiss, I slammed the door on the memory and severed its connection. I would not remember this, not now.

I jumped up as the clock hit the end of my shift, shoving the memory to the back of my mind, and nearly ran out of the building. It was a relief to walk the halls of my home, the scent of it driving that memory further back. Demetria was gone, probably out with her other friends. I dialed her number, hearing it ring four times exactly before she picked up.

"Raven?"

"what are your plans for this week?" I questioned her. I could hear her shifting over the background noise, faint music and people.

"Nothing, why?"

"You and I are going to London tomorrow. I dearly hope your passport has not expired, Demetria. It is rather important that we arrive in less than two days."

She muttered something about strange friends before answering, "Yeah, okay. I'll be home in a few hours."

I hung up.

The next morning saw the both of us in one of the various airports scattered around the country's capitol. My bags, including my gun and forensic gear, had been checked with a hurried explanation and the flash of my badge. Demetria had waltzed right through security, as usual. I huffed in annoyance, taking my seat beside her to wait for the plane to lift from the runway. The flight was headed straight for London, scheduled to arrive before night did. I could only hope that we would return soon. I doubted that the FBI would hold my position open for long.

It was a seven-hour flight, and I could only pass the time reading the people around me as I flew steadily towards what could be my making or my doom. The uneasy sense within me said that it might just turn out to be both; it was time to show the world what Raven Holmes could do.

* * *

 **It's the author, after a long time. Sorry that I haven't updated sooner; I sort of forgot about the story being up on here. It's up on Wattpad fully, along with the first chapters of book two, and that's where I've been editing it. Thanks for waiting for this. Please comment; it means a lot.**


	6. Chapter Five

_Chapter Five: Forgotten City_

Tessa Lee's murder took up most of the plane ride as I scanned the notes I had amassed. At some point, I would probably have to go to Scotland Yard to get some more information on that ammunition, but that could wait. I did have to meet whoever it was who rang me at my desk in the FBI, but Lee's murder took the top shelf, especially since I had to be out of London soon. It was simply impossible for me to stay, considering my history there. I did not want to risk remembering, if I had chosen to forget fourteen years ago.

I shifted into a sense of detached boredom as the flight progressed; my write-up of the completed case was finished and I couldn't do anything else on Lee's murder while I was here. So I drifted, and doors that had been long closed in my mind began to open for the first time in over a decade.

 _"What?" the teenage girl, icy blue eyes framed by raven locks, glared in shock and outrage at her parents. Her two brothers, standing behind the adults, wore identical sheepish expressions. It was not helping in the least, and the girl was even less happy now._

 _"We cannot just move to America. This is ridiculous! You expect me to just pull up my life and leave? This is absolutely absurd," she snorted._

 _"Raven, you don't have a life here. We thought you were going to take it the easiest," the older of her brothers stated._

 _"He has a valid point. You spend all your time in the library and holed up in your room," her younger brother pointed out._

 _This did not sit well with the young genius. Her brothers did, indeed, speak the truth. For the last four years, the majority of her time had either been spent studying or trying to find her real relatives, of which there seemed to be no trace. She suspected it was not always as such, but at fourteen, there was nothing she could do about it._

 _"We leave in three weeks. I suggest you get packing. Raven, it isn't that bad. I am sure that they will have everything you need there," her mother sighed. Well, not technically her mother, not sharing any of the traits the girl herself had, but the woman who had raised her. For that matter, none of the people in the room truly were tied by blood to the unquestionably intelligent, debatably a bit sociopathic, teenage girl with the eyes like flames of ice._

 _"No. They won't." It was her family that she was looking for. That was not something found in another country across the ocean. It might as well have been another planet, for all the little good it did her._

I jerked upright, surprised and a bit taken aback at the memory still lingering in the corners of my mind. This one was not as painful, but it was undoubtedly key, and would most likely lead to other memories, none of which I really wanted to visit at the present moment.

When the plane had finally touched down in London, I collected my baggage and exited as quickly as I could, breathing in the night air I had been sixteen years away from. I had never truly wiped that from my mind palace, for it was far too beautiful. Demetria joined me outside, dragging her case behind her. She halted as we passed through the doors, her eyes wide in awe as she took in the sight of London at night spread before us. It truly was breathtaking, but there was no more time to ponder that now. I had to get to the flat I had rented the night before, and then there was work to do. I didn't particularly care about sleep at the moment, owing to a great many factors, among which was my mental state; already in decline, it probably would not survive an onslaught of sixteen years of memories that had spent the better part of twenty years locked away in my mind palace.

I hailed a cab and gave the address, ignoring the look of surprise he shot me in the rearview mirror as we pulled away from the curb. Demetria, half-asleep beside me, was taking in as much of the city as she could while we drive. I did not blame her, because she was going to have to get used to it fast. No telling how long it would take me to get all the information to solve Lee's death, especially given the cooperation rate of Scotland Yard.

We pulled up outside a midnight-black door with gold lettering and a slightly askew knocker, which seemed to be the place I had rented. Demetria forked over the required money and I hauled my cases out of the trunk, stepping up to the door and rapping briskly on it. A few moments passed and I took a small step back, waiting for it to swing open. It did, revealing a small woman in her mid-sixties who gave the two of us an odd look before stepping back and allowing us in.

"Mrs. Hudson?" I questioned, ascertaining the identity of the woman standing across from us. I read that she was the landlady, but nothing else I needed at the moment.

"Yes, actually. You must be the woman who rented a flat here," she replied.

"Indeed, I am. Would you mind pointing me in the right direction?" I asked. Mrs. Hudson opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted by pounding feet on the stairs. A rather short blond man who read as ex-army and a doctor appeared, staring when he spotted me.

"You aren't a client, are you?" was the only thing he said before turning around and running back up the narrow flight off wooden stairs. I watched him with a raised eyebrow, wondering what he could possibly mean. Mrs. Hudson looked a bit annoyed at the man's obviously out-of-character lack of manners, but Demetria just looked resigned. For a moment, I felt a bit sorry for her overwhelmed friend.

The violin that had been playing, music echoing down the stairs, screeched to a halt and two men began to argue. I could not quite make out the words, but it was clear that one of the voices was the short man who had just come down the stairs. After a few moments, they halted. A second set of footsteps, this one a bit heavier, descended soon after the voices ceased, but I was caught off guard at the man who appeared on the stairs. His eyes, akin to mine, narrowed. He scanned both my companion and myself, frowning as his gaze came to rest on mine.

"Not a client. That's interesting. American, two siblings, estranged family. No, not estranged- forgotten." He was about to continue when I interrupted.

"You know nothing about me; my advice is shut your mouth before I shut it for you," I snapped.

"Raven!" Demetria exclaimed at the same moment that a disappointed "Sherlock!" came from the mouth of the landlady. Ignoring the tall, dark-haired man who must have been Sherlock, I grabbed my bag and stalked up the staircase. It was the best bet for the location of the flat, and I did not feel like dealing with the two other tenants at that moment. I could still hear Demetria faintly apologizing for me down below as I came out on a small landing.

Two doors stood across from each other; one was labeled with a 'B', the other 'C'. I shoved the latter opened and marched inside, slamming it behind me. The sparsely furnished flat, small but decent, was exactly what I needed for the investigations I was attempting to complete in this city. With a sigh, I dropped my bag in one of the bedrooms and slipped into a chair, retreating to my mind. I barely registered Demetria walking in and immediately heading into one of the rooms; by the time she emerged again, I was wholly inside my mind palace, going over Lee's killing and everything I knew about the ammunition used. That would have to be my first lead, I decided.

"Raven!" Startled, I shot upright. My friend was leaning against the counter opposite me, glaring. Her arms were crossed and her expression was one of annoyance. "We've been here a matter of hours. Are you trying to make everyone hate you?"

"That depends. The short one just looked resigned. The tall one looked like one does when a strategy one often uses is employed against oneself. I would hazard a guess that neither actually dislikes me," I responded. Demetria rolled her eyes, frustrated.

"We're talking tomorrow. Goodnight." With that, I was left in the semidarkness of the living room to think. I forewent that course for some much-needed sleep.

For the first time in weeks, I was not plagued by nightmares and memories as I slept.


	7. Chapter Six

_Chapter Six: Questions and Answers_

"She's in the other room." The first words Demetria had spoken all morning since she had stumbled from her room looking half-dead and declared she needed coffee were expressed to someone standing at the door; a stranger. I looked up from my file to see a tall, thin man leaning on an umbrella who peered at me with a morbid interest, like someone gawking at a mutant in a zoo.

The man had red-brown hair and a superior look. He was sharply dressed in a suit and tie like that which a government official would wear. I believed that he was at least eight years older than me and intelligent. He clearly held a high position somewhere in which he took pride. He had family, but wasn't romantically attached, most likely because he believed that most of the human population was vastly inferior to him. He was also OCD, as he had straightened the slightly askew door knocker and his entire outfit was pristine down to the last thread. The man was also not one for emotions of any sort. He walked like Sherlock did, making it possible that the two were related.

"Raven Holmes, I assume. Interesting." He half-smiled, ignoring Demetria's puzzled look. He stood there for a few more seconds without putting forth introduction and turned away, pausing briefly to stick his head into Sherlock Holmes's door just across the landing and walking off down the stairs, umbrella hooked over his arm. He yelled something, and a grumbled response came from within the messy flat. I was still watching as the mysterious man disappeared down the stairs.

"Who was that?" Demetria asked me, looking concerned.

"I honestly have no idea of his name, though he is not terribly difficult to deduce," I responded as I shut the door quietly and turned to my friend. She shook her head at me and went back to her magazine, lying forgotten on the table.

I spent the afternoon tracing the ammunition Tessa Lee had been murdered with. Nothing came up, but I sensed a pattern that I had yet to unravel itself in my hands. I knew it would, though. They always did, ever since I was seventeen and being consulted by the police.

I left my flat, shutting the door quietly behind me, and headed out just as my watch read five. I was going to walk the streets of London, get to know them again. The stairs were odd, so different than the ones I had been using for six years in my house. It was strange, the seventeen steps seeming unnatural to my body as I descended them and retreated into my mind palace. My body was functioning on autopilot, however, and managed to miss a step and go plunging to the bottom.

I winced as I pushed myself up, my pain no worse than the time I went over a railing on a case just after I had joined the FBI. As I eased myself into a seat on the stairs, my phone rang. Like the second man to ring me at the FBI, a blocked number flashed on my screen. I swiped my finger across the button and put the phone to my ear, apprehensive.

"Raven Holmes."

There was a void of sound before the man on the other end started to speak. "Ah. Miss Holmes. It will be good to meet you finally." He sighed. "I have heard great things about your investigations, and that was why I had you come from America to aid me. However, there are factors that may derail you from your task. I have called to warn you that lives are at stake in this; more lives than have ever rested upon your shoulders. You have entered dangerous territory now.

"I pray that you can finish what I will give you, for I believe that only you will be able to take it on. Before I meet you and tell you what you are doing, there is one piece of information that you must know; I confess that it is vital, though it may not seem so at first. Sherlock Holmes has a sister." With that, he hung up. There was no further explanation as to what I was doing, no clues as to the task. It was intentionally confusing me, probably so that this man would be the only source of my task in this country. He was clearly smart and hell-bent on making me confused.

Sitting on the bottom of the staircase, I stared at the blank screen. Sherlock Holmes' family seemed irrelevant to me at the moment, but it was entirely possible that it would become vital information at a later time. Odder things had happened to me in my years at the FBI and odder things were guaranteed to happen later in my life.

I was up the stairs after the call before anything else unusual could happen; after the last few minutes, nothing seemed like a long shot My journey out onto the streets of a city I had all but forgotten, so changed by time, was abandoned in favor of analyzation of evidence and the plotting of my next move. Technically I was acting against direct orders from my superiors, but I was also solving a murder I had become fixated on, so all was well.

I was searching through articles about old shootings in the area when my phone buzzed, a text from a blocked number. I was more eager than I would have liked to see what was written in it, the haste in my manner not missed by Demetria. She gave me an odd look, placing her latest entertainment on the table and walking over.

"What is it?" she questioned.

"Something new," I muttered in reply, avoiding her question altogether.

The message was simple at the start, a set of coordinates and a time. Midnight that night. It was the sentence following those numbers that shocked me enough to toss the phone onto the table and jerk to my feet. _Answers from your past._

It was a graveyard where I was supposed to travel in a few hours, a graveyard that supposedly held answers to what I had locked away. Answers that I apparently needed to help the head of the British government fight a genius (why else would I be needed?), and it was now becoming evident that this matter was connected to Lee's murder.


	8. Chapter Seven

_Chapter Seven: Grave Discussions_

By the time darkness had completely descended upon London, I was itching to go. It didn't matter where to, but suddenly the flat seemed too small to hold me. The city was achingly similar yet so different than when I had left it behind more than a decade ago. It was a reminder of the things which I had sought to forget and the family I had left behind. It was nearing midnight and Demetria was asleep in her room; I could see her shape beneath the covers through the open door, and the faint sound of her breathing was steadying to me, grounding me in the world as my mind pulled towards the past. With one last look around and a rapid note to my friend left on the counter, I slipped through the door of 221C and out into the night.

I forewent hailing a cab to walk, as I knew precisely the place which the coordinates pinpointed. I had been there more than once when I lived in London, seeing the sights and hoping that I might find a clue as to who I was. Nothing was discovered, and that resource was cut off from me when I left the country at fourteen.

As the cemetery's gates loomed ahead of me, I brushed a finger over the steel point of a blade which I had tucked into my sleeve. By no means would I call myself an expert at knives, but they were as comfortable in my palm as a gun was. My sanctioned training had never included the knives, but a serial killer a few years prior had been scrutinized for technique. I had watched him fight and seen how he worked before copying the method and adding my own ways.

The graveyard was closed for the night, but the fence was old and broken in places. One of these provided the perfect entrance for me, and I slipped between wooden slats edged in chain link and into the cemetery, making sure to avoid the stones which littered my path. The graves were sobering to me, as I had always hated walking for too long among the dead.

"Raven Holmes?" The voice that reached me was familiar, a sophisticated accent. I had heard it once before, from the odd man who had shown up at my door the day before. The government official with the suit and umbrella who had never given his name.

"You're the one who brought me here?" I questioned him, stepping into the small clearing. He smiled faintly.

"Indeed I am. Welcome to London, Miss Holmes."

He stood, and I noted the umbrella he had hung over his arm. An expression of sight confusion crossed my face; I still couldn't help but wonder why and for whom my help was needed.

"Please, have a seat. I am sure you wish to know why you are here and why I have been so secretive with you," the unnamed man stated, waving me to the bench. He remained standing and began to pace the footpath, words seeming to fail him for a moment. He did not mention the portion of writing at the end of his text, which was my reason for coming at the late hour.

"Quite so," I replied. "Please do explain."

He gave me an odd look and started to speak. "My name, which I recognize you have wanted to know, is Mycroft Holmes. It is my job to find people like you, the geniuses in a world of goldfish. You have been on my radar for a very long time, ever since I was first made aware of you. Your years at the FBI were of special interest, as I have only ever seen one other person with the same intelligence and skills take a similar career path. You now reside at the flat across from his.

"There have been reports of a threat to our security. Not a terrorist or cell, exactly, but a sort of network. I am afraid that I am not at liberty to discuss the details with you for the present time," he stated, seating himself beside me.

"As for the part of the message that I know brought you here, it has fallen upon me to inform you of your relatives. Believe me, it will be important for you to know."

"And the last part of your text to me?"

"Your family, your blood family, is alive and living here. I will give you information on them, but not tonight. Give me a few days and you will understand my hesitation," Mycroft averred. I did not understand his hesitation, but I could read that it was significant.

"You met me in a graveyard at midnight to give me no concrete details at all and tell me barely anything about the matter which I came here to learn about?" I questioned, anger seeping into my tone. He seemed to expect it, smiling.

"I wanted to give you a bit more information regarding your task, which is to help us eliminate the threat to our security. You are one of the most capable people I know for the job," he said. "As for the information, I am afraid that I cannot give it all to you here. The details of the case, like those of your family, will arrive within a few days."

"That's all you have to say?"

"Yes, for tonight. Expect a visit soon, Raven. And do try to stay in London for the time being."


	9. Chapter Eight

_Chapter Eight: Missing_

Demetria and I had done a lot of settling in the eleven years since we had met, and this move was no different. It was unusually easy to feel at home and at ease there in the city, and I tried to forget that I _had_ been at home there, so many years before. Not for a long time, however; my home was where the one person who saw he as human dwelt.

 _"You graduated from Quantico with the best grades in our year and you actually have the audacity to ask whether the FBI would want you? With your ability to read things as if they were books and your history helping the police, why not?" Demetria glared at her companion, still pacing before her._

 _"Yeah, but I'm... me. I'm blunt, sarcastic, and too smart for my own good," was the protested reply. It was met with a glare._

 _"You may be those things, but you're also a genius at solving crimes and you can actually help people. Now quit your whining and write that reply to them or I swear I will write it for you." Despite the stern reply, there was a smile on Demetria's face as she reprimanded her friend._

"Raven, will you _please_ get the finger off the counter? I know it's for a case, but it's putting me off my food," came a familiar and resigned voice from the kitchen. I stared her way, wondering why those few seconds of time had come to me and yet been so fleeting, chased away by the first sound from my friend.

I grinned at her annoyed expression as she held the offending finger aloft. In the five days since my meeting of Mycroft Holmes, I had done as he recommended and not left the city. I had simply made myself able to work on the cases that the FBI was not letting me hand off to someone else, and one of those cases had involved a finger mailed to the various Evans triplets, of which I was an acquaintance. They had asked for me to help, and I had agreed.

"It's for the Evans trio. You do want me to help them, correct?" I questioned drily, still grinning. She glared at me.

"I really hate you sometimes, Rae," she muttered to me.

"I know you do."

She laughed despite herself and I, still grinning, went back to the task I was doing before I lost track of my mind. The day passed; I worked on the case I had, and Demetria went out.

There was a window in my flat, one that looked over the alley. Generally, the alley was empty save for a few garbage bins and some dirt, but there was something else there that evening. Just beneath my window, a tall figure leaned against the brick wall. I couldn't see the face, but the man was speaking to someone on a phone and his figure seemed familiar.

The building across the street held a window,and the man's face was reflected in it. Blond hair, dark blue eyes, and a scar running along his cheek. Handsome and terrifying, all at the same time. He was a predator, and I had seen him before. He was the man who had been across the street from me back in America, the one who had grinned at me and vanished.

Those eyes lifted and caught my reflection in the window above. A lazy grin spread across his face as he turned and met my gaze. I froze as he continued to smile, looking like a cat toying with a mouse.

 _Hello, Holmes,_ he mouthed and stepped beyond my sight, far too quick to have been spontaneous. This man, whoever he was, was following me and making sure I noticed it. He wanted me to notice him, to see him.

I slammed the window shut and left the room fast, not running but not walking, either. The man unnerved me.

"What's wrong?" questioned Demetria, looking surprised by my sudden reappearance.

"Nothing."

The rest of the night left me jumping every time a shadow passed beneath my door or I heard unfamiliar footsteps on the stairs. I was almost relieved to be given a distraction when an email appeared on my phone's screen, not letting me see the email address but signed with the initials MH.

It started with a date twenty-nine years in the past, with a child who was given away and never seen by those who knew of her again. It finished with four names at the bottom of the screen, the last living relatives I had. Two names I was not that surprised to see, given what I had gotten from my admittedly limited interactions with the pair. My older brothers, Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes.

I sat staring at the screen for a long time, waiting for the memories I had locked away to reappear. They did not, and I was left only to think that they were tied to people and places, and this information was not. The memories I had forgotten, shoved into the farthest corner of my mind palace, had to do with the family that I was not related to by blood. I could not hide from that past forever, and this case was bringing it to the surface.

My life continued to go on, even after such a pivotal declaration had been shoved onto me. Demetria was herself, and the addition of my real family was surprisingly anticlimactic. Sherlock especially was irritating, with the size of his ego and his perceived superiority to humanity, so I ignored him most of the time.

My investigation into the ammunition used to kill Tessa Lee did reveal one thing: a list of buyers. There were no names, only initials and aliases, but one recurred more than most. One set of initials, SM. No name, nothing. Just two letters that finally gave me a lead after three weeks in the dark and a failed case at the Bureau. I smiled in satisfaction, determined not to let this one thread slip away from me.

Mycroft, who had been present for the past half hour, seemed unsurprised at my sudden satisfaction. He had frequently informed me how alike my mannerisms were to Sherlock, and I supposed that our hours of quiet before a cry of triumph was alike. He sighed as I continued to overlook his presence in the room, frowning at the screen of his phone.

"What's bothering you? Something obviously is," I asked.

"A name you've never heard of, belonging to a person I hope you never meet."

"Who?"

"Moriarty." He spat the name as if it was poison. "I pray that the rumors aren't true, but if they are he's coming back. He almost killed our shared sibling. That man is the greatest adversary any of us have ever seen."

"He's the person you brought me here to help you fight, correct?" I questioned, not at all surprised. I had heard stories over the past two weeks of Sherlock's escapades and near-death experiences, which appeared to be on the rise. His cases, though interesting, were occasionally dangerous.

"Yes. My spies have reported that his network is solidifying again, even though it never really drew apart that much. Someone else must have taken the reins." The last sentence was muttered to himself, a sort of afterthought.

"Ah. Do you know who?"

"I have an inkling," Mycroft spoke. His gaze was far-off, lost in thought.

"Say, did you see Demetria when you came in? She's been gone for a while," I mused.

"No. Should I have? I thought she said that she was going out for something," was the reply. I frowned, sure that she should have returned.

"Raven!" The voice of John Watson cut through the room like a sword, starling me. I whirled to face him.

"What is it this time?" I asked, annoyed. John, to say the least, was not my favorite person ever to grace the planet. Neither, I realized, was Sherlock.

He shoved the door open looking as if he had just seen a ghost. In his hand was a small piece of paper, heavy and cream-colored; it was expensive, as well as being the cause of all the man's angst.

"I think you'd better read this," me said. His voice was grave as he handed me the note, which I deduced had been recently placed on my door and just noticed by the passing army doctor.

 _Such a pretty thing, your pet human. It would be a great tragedy should something happen to her. Find me, I dare you; really, doesn't every true genius need a bit of a challenge sometimes? Happy hunting, Raven Queen. Do not try to trace this._

 _I know you will recognize the initials,_

 _JM._

The edges of the paper crumpled under my fingers. I clenched my hands and stood, knowing what the last sentence was about. The unsolved murders which had taken place when I was a young trainee had been signed in blood with JM, and it appeared to be the same person.

"Oh, and someone from Scotland Yard called. They want to meet the sister of the legend," Sherlock yelled from the bottom of the stairs. I heard the door slam behind him, and then I was racing in his path.

"Because the sister of the legend is top priority," I grumbled as I sped after him.


	10. Chapter Nine

_Chapter Nine: Notes and Records_

Sherlock had hailed a cab to Scotland Yard, and I contained my excitement at finally going to the place I had longed to see ever since I had gotten into law enforcement. They most likely held records on the ammunition I needed traced and the initials I had uncovered, but I would need to wait a bit before asking them. Even if my newfound brother was their consultant, I would not be instantly trusted.

Neither, it seemed, would Sherlock. He was greeted with various scattered groans as he entered, but was mostly ignored. There were a few who actually seemed not to mind him, though I could not imagine why, and one or two even gave me a small smile or friendly nod. It was not a majority, however. Not by a long shot.

"Oi, Holmes! Who's your twin?" yelled a woman lounging against a wall. She had dark skin and black hair, and looked very bored. She had clearly known and disliked Sherlock for a long time, and I honestly could not blame her. From his own expression, I saw that there was no love lost between him and her from either end.

"A year younger than me, actually. Please do get your facts straight," was the reply he threw at her as she stood, astonished.

"What? Since when was there _three_ of you?" groaned a man with dark brown hair and a shockingly low IQ. He had emerged from around the corner, taking a place beside the woman. He, too, was an enemy of Sherlock, though he was more annoying than actually malevolent.

"Will somebody please explain what on earth is going on? And who are you?" The words came from a man in his late forties who had come from an office just around the corner. His hair, despite his relatively young age, was grey and he read as a detective inspector. From Sherlock's ramblings on various occasions, I deduced that he was D.I. Lestrade, of whom John had spoken highly and Sherlock had not insulted. His final question was directed at me, with no hostility but more than a little curiosity.

"Raven Holmes, of the American FBI. Technically Sherlock's sister," I informed him. I was still not completely reconciled with the information after two weeks, but there was little that I could do about it.

"He's got a sister? Oh, that's just lovely." Lestrade sighed. "Now there's two of them. Wait a minute, the FBI? You don't sound American," he said to me.

"I've lived there a while. Kept the accent, but actually haven't been to England for the last half of my life," I informed him. He nodded, seeming satisfied with my answer.

"Lestrade, let's get to the point. I need your assistance for a case of mine, and I believe that Raven might require it as well. Oh, and tell your force to do better on first impressions," Sherlock finished.

"Sure. Sherlock, there's a few men I already have on the case. Just down the hall, thanks. Uh, Raven, why exactly do you need help?"

As we walked, I explained about Demetria and the note, producing it as evidence to him. He pulled out a cloth and took it, stuffing it into an envelope as we made our way into what I believed to be his office. It was affirmed by the marks on the surface and the familiar way in which he sat within it.

"Let me get this straight. The long-lost sister of Sherlock Holmes came to London with a friend. That same friend has now been captured by someone with the initials JM," Lestrade said to me. I nodded.

"Any thoughts?" I questioned him.

"Yes, but it's unlikely that a corpse kidnapped your friend. And she may not even be gone; whoever it was could have seen that she wasn't back, known that she would take a bit, and given this to you to spook you. Based on your descriptions, it seems like a likely thing," he stated. I raised an eyebrow.

"A corpse, Detective Inspector?" I queried.

"James Moriarty, the only one I know of who would pull something like this. He actually did something similar to Sherlock a few years ago, but he's dead. Sherlock watched him put a bullet in his own brain. No body, but it's pretty concrete evidence," he informed me.

"Ah; that makes sense." Still, there was a doubt in the back of my mind that something was not right about the picture. The blond man from earlier came to mind, but it was unlikely that he had any bearing on the case. "So, will you help me? I don't need any of your men, but an extra set of eyes might be good."

"Kidnapping and notes? Why not," Lestrade muttered.

"Good. Thank you for your help, Lestrade."

Outside, I padded up the Sherlock. He turned when he saw me, seeming puzzled with my presence. "Yes?"

"Out of curiosity, what does James Moriarty look like?"

He gave me a puzzled, worried look. "Why do you want to know?" He asked, and concern was laced in his tone. Not concern for me; it had been too soon to form attachments. Concern for my motives.

"An old case from the Bureau. Never caught the guy," I replied. He seemed to accept the answer, but barely. I caught him giving me an odd look as I stared back down the hall, still longing for the records that I needed to help me.

"He's about your height but seemed taller. Dark brown hair and these odd, red-brown eyes. Pale skin. Always wore suits, strangely enough," Sherlock murmured to himself. It was odd that he had not picked up on my use of present tense, especially as everyone else referred to the criminal mastermind as they would any other corpse, and I stored that bit of information in my mind.

"Are we just going to stand here, or are we going to actually attempt to find Demetria?" I said after a moment of silence. Sherlock shook himself from his reverie and followed me out of the Yard, with John Watson parting from us and stating that he had to go. Sherlock merely snorted; part annoyance, part sarcasm at his friend's exit.


	11. Chapter Ten

_Chapter Ten: The Theatrics of Mechanical Minds_

"Here's the location that I came up with," I said to Sherlock as I tossed a map onto his lap. It was nearing night, and I had spent the day thinking up places where my friend could be hidden. That had gone on until a text from a restricted number popped up on my phone. It listed a street address and was signed with "Have fun, Raven Queen." I did not pretend to understand what it meant, but I was obviously needed there, even if it was the most obvious trap in the universe.

"And you found this how?" he questioned as I shut the door.

"I, unlike you, actually do things with my spare time."

It was an abandoned warehouse that the address belonged to, and I groaned internally. It was almost too cliché to handle, even for a psychopathic mass murderer who was wanted in multiple countries. He clearly had a taste for the dramatic, which I normally would have admired if it were not for the decrepit state of the building.

"Ah, you're here," Sherlock said to Lestrade. The grey-haired man had been leaning up against the side of the building, but came over to the pair of us as we approached him.

"Well, it can't possibly get stranger, and having a Holmes sibling in my debt had to be a good thing," he replied. I laughed; it appeared that my family had built quite the reputation in London.

The sun was setting as we entered; the last rays of light framed our shadows like an explosion behind us. I shivered subconsciously, remembering my cases in the FBI. Things like these had the potential to go horribly wrong, especially when there were four of us and we knew nothing of our opponents. At least, I knew nothing of them. Sherlock seemed to know more than he was letting on, and John Watson undoubtedly knew whatever Sherlock did.

The inside of the warehouse was blanketed in dust. A distinct set of footprints, of a size that did not bode well for any adversaries, led across the room and through a doorway.

"It's a trap," Lestrade stated. I snorted.

"Of course it is, which means we spring the trap. Demetria's in here somewhere, and I am getting her out," I stated before following the trail. Sherlock sighed and started after me, and Lestrade and John had no choice but to follow.

The footprints, which I judged by the stride to belong to a man about six and a half feet tall, led straight to a metal staircase. It stretched up to another floor, the ceiling of which was lost in shadow. I sighed and began to ascend, carefully listening for any footprints besides the three sets behind me.

"Raven?" The voice came from a room above me, and as I heard the hesitant syllables I broke into a run. Sensing my hurry, the other three followed.

"Demetria!" I cried, relieved. The room that the voice came from was off to one side of my current position, and I threw it open. My caution went along with it as I saw my friend pacing the room, eyes wide and fearful. She threw her arms around me as I met her gaze.

"He said you were coming, but I didn't believe it." Her voice was muffled against my shoulder

I pulled away. "Who? Who said it?" I asked as she and I stepped from the room.

"A man. He called my phone; I never saw him. Someone attacked me from behind, and I woke up about an hour ago here," she said, talking fast as she could. "He just said that he wanted you to notice, and that if I went missing, you would notice."

"Rather dramatic way to get someone's attention," Sherlock commented. John glared at him and Lestrade muffled an annoyed sigh.

"Yes, but I somehow don't think he cares, Sherlock," I stated. "Now can we go?"

So the five of us left, the warehouse decaying into dust behind us, and the doors of my mind palace opened wide for me.

 _She had fled her family merely weeks ago, giving up the people who loved her because she could not, would not fit in to them and their ordinary society. Raven had left them behind because she had never fit in and at least she had a chance to make a name for herself in the city she dwelt in, with her last year of high school almost at its close. She knew where she was going afterwards, and it was no shock to her that within a week of arriving, she had come to the police and they had begun using her as a consultant._

 _Seventeen years had passed from her birth, and there had not been a single one in which society had taken her existence and let it be, so she retreated from humans and spent her time in police stations, bookstores, and libraries, including that of glass windows and stone walls which resided in her new home._

 _The pale, dark-haired girl was sitting in that selfsame library, a book occupying the table before her. Next to it, a smaller book was open; her finger ran down the entries as she searched for an unfamiliar word. Finding it, she turned back to the book before her, all of which was written in Greek._

 _She looked up as a man passed by, the only other person in her section. He was young, about 19. Dark hair, darker eyes. Pale and as tall as the girl he was passing, if not an inch or two taller. Tucked beneath his arm was the twin to her own book, in the same language as hers. He seemed to notice as well, as his eyes flicked over the pages of her book, taking in both the title and the language._

 _"The Iliad. Isn't that a bit advanced for your age?" he questioned, speaking in an odd, lilting accent. She filed it away in her mind for further reference._

 _"I could ask the same thing about you and The Odyssey," Raven shot back. The young man laughed, and it somehow seemed unhinged._

 _"When you're a genius, you learn not to mind," he replied, still grinning._

 _"I should know; I am one myself," the seventeen-year-old finished quietly. The man gave her a long, searching look. He ended his gaze abruptly and gave her a small smile, like he knew something she didn't._

 _"Happy reading," he said, before vanishing amongst towering shelves, the original Greek translation of Homer's The Odyssey still tucked beneath a skinny arm sheathed in the sleeve of a suit. The girl frowned and turned back to her story._

My eyes widened imperceptibly as I sat up straighter. It was one of my earlier memories after I left, and I had all but forgotten it.

 _"He's about your height but seemed taller. Dark brown hair and these odd, red-brown eyes. Pale skin. Always wore suits, strangely enough,"_ Sherlock had said. It was the same as the man from the library twelve years ago, exactly the same. I was not a new target for his mind games; he had only just begun to actually focus on me rather than either of the older Holmes brothers. He had targeted me years ago with the brutal, signed murders. And with me in London and him in hiding, I had just opened myself up as a perfect mark for him to hit.

Tessa Lee's murder had been his doing, to draw me to London. He knew that I would not let the case go, which meant that he knew my mind as well as I did. The thought scared me more than I would have liked. If he knew my mind, then the logical next step would be to go after Demetria.

"Did you receive anything from the man, Demetria? A note, a message, something like that?" I questioned quietly, hoping that no one else would hear. She gave me an odd look.

"Yeah, actually. He said to give you this. It was in my pocket when I woke up," she replied. "What is it?"

The note she handed me was simple. _Great minds think alike, Raven Queen,_ was etched in dark ink on the paper, seeming triumphant in a way that only this man seemed to be able to. And indeed, we both were great minds, albeit in different manners.

Baker Street was quiet when the five of us returned. Lestrade left us at the door, saying goodbye and heading off to the Yard. They got all the evidence, and we thought that was that. For the next two weeks, all was quiet. I always felt like I was being watched, though. It was something I couldn't shake off. Mycroft attributed it to the recent kidnapping, but I had never felt like this. Not when I worked for the police, not when I was hunting serial killers in the FBI, and most definitely not in this city that had always seemed like home to me.

* * *

 **A/N: This is the end of Act One, so the next chapter basically starts a whole new part. I would seperate them like I did on Wattpad, but the documents won't let me do that on this site. Anyway, if you want to read the version that I have on Wattpad (Nothing past here is edited), then feel free. Follow, favorite, review; thanks.**


	12. Chapter Eleven

_Chapter Eleven: Rise or Fall_

Two weeks since Demetria had been taken, night was descending on the streets of London as usual. I, as had become my routine, was just exiting Baker Street to take a walk when a car pulled up beside me. It was black, with tinted windows in which I could scarcely see. One rolled down as I approached, showing Mycroft's face. I sighed, unsurprised. The theatrics were just his style, and he had pulled similar stunts exactly four times in those two weeks.

"Yes? What do you want?" I questioned, letting annoyance slip into my tone.

"I want to catch Jim Moriarty, though that is proving a difficult task. Hunting a ghost is harder than it sounds. I also want to know why exactly he is after you, and what you think on the subject."

"He's not doing it to get to you; that stage is long gone. I don't believe that it has anything to do with you or Sherlock," I replied.

Mycroft sighed and shifted in the car's seat. "Well, what _do_ you think?" He questioned.

"What do I think? I think that James Moriarty is alive, and he is not going to let old vendettas go. This time, he has a new target. Me. _That_ is my opinion on the subject, brother mine." I turned on my heel and strode away, hoping that he would get my message and leave. When I turned around near the end of the block, the car was gone.

In the thirty minutes that I was absent from 221C, I began to hope that nothing unusual would happen. I would go back to America with my friend after solving Tessa Lee's murder. I would extract myself from the lives of those at Baker Street forever, leaving the beautiful city to sit in my mind but not in my heart. My hope was founded in nothing, as I soon found out. There was no way that I was going to escape what I had set in motion unwillingly.

It was a cool day in early October that my life crumbled, that my past caught up to me. It was a month earlier that I first heard the confirmation that I had not sought, that I had not _wanted;_ that there was a killer walking among us, and that he was hunting me.

I had spent around a month in London at the time, and for whatever reason, I was feeling more amiable towards the younger of my brothers than I usually did. I had decided to stop by his flat and discuss methods of crime-solving and deduction with him. We were discussing the post-mortem coagulation of saliva, a topic that neither of us appeared to be terribly familiar with, when a single knock reverberated off the wooden door. I had missed the footsteps coming up the stairs, but guessed who it was anyway. Indeed, when Sherlock opened the door, Mycroft stood in the frame. He did not even wait to take a seat before he looked Sherlock in the eye and stated, "He's back."

Sherlock's movements stilled. He turned to his brother with an incredulous expression, obviously not registering how grave Mycroft sounded.

"What? That's not possible. I saw him die. I was _there,_ in case you forgot," he spoke haughtily.

"Who?" I questioned, annoyed at how they both ignored me. There was only one possibility as to who it could be, and I knew the answer even before Mycroft opened his mouth and delivered the two words I had never wanted to hear again.

"James Moriarty."

Even the name was evil, spoken as a thing of darkness. I had heard a lot from both of my brothers over the weeks, but I had seen the extent of his destruction. I had seen the explosions, the newspaper articles; I had heard of Sherlock's fall. Moriarty was the man responsible for Sherlock's ruin, though the taint had faded by the time the curly-haired detective came back, and had killed so many just to destroy Sherlock. Now he had returned. Now, he was after me.

"That's still not possible! I was a foot away from him when he shot himself in the head. I watched his body fall, Mycroft. He is dead," Sherlock said forcefully. Mycroft sighed.

"Well, I don't have all the answers. All I know is that his face appeared on every screen in England right after you, brother dearest, were exiled. That's why we brought you back. Then, less than a month later, Raven shows up with a murder on her hands. It isn't a coincidence that she came here."

"Hold on a sec, Mycroft," I said. "You brought me here to help you take down Moriarty's network."

"Yes, but if it weren't for the killing of Tessa Lee, you would still be working cases in America," he responded.

"I know, but it wasn't all my decision."

"The ammunition led you here. It was a trail set up specifically for you to find, because it would have taken much longer for any normal FBI agent to locate anything about that particular bullet type. No one else would have ties to London."

"True," Sherlock mused. "It would be a good way to draw someone out. Why Raven, though?"

"Because she isn't like us. She's as smart as either of us, but with completely different experiences. She is not a self-proclaimed 'high-functioning sociopath', as you insist on calling yourself. She isn't the embodiment of the British government. She's an FBI agent, Sherlock. America left her acting far different than you or I would in a similar situation," Mycroft stated plainly to Sherlock. Resigned, I sat back in my chair as my brothers continued to argue.

"What do you mean? She's smart, she can read people. There isn't much else that _can_ be different," Sherlock replied. I stood up.

"Sherlock, are you really _that_ stupid to think that my brain is the only thing that defines me?" I demanded. "I have seen things that you never would. When I said that you knew nothing about me the first time we met, I meant it. Do not attempt to define me simply because you and I have similar skills," I spat at him.

"When you actually have something about Moriarty to say, Mycroft, you can stop by my flat. I'm leaving." There was something satisfying in slamming the door of 221B hard enough to make the pictures shake. I was angry, and it wasn't only at my older brother.

* * *

 **A/N: Okay, so this is the first part of Act Two (of three). I wanted to add in the fact that Raven really doesn't get along with Sherlock; he's too emotionless, and knows nothing of what her life before London was like. She likes Mycroft a lot better, because both are smarter than Sherlock. I am stilll trying to figure out a way to express that, but Raven is a bit smarter than her brother.**


End file.
